February 14, 2069

I have no clue as to why or how but the year 2069 has always stood out in my sick little mind as the year I die. The ripe old age of 85 doesn't seem so bad, I'm sure I'm sick of you all by then anyway. As for February 14, well it would only feel right to have such an ironic death (its ironic if you know the sad sad history of my dating life).

Moving on.

I am writing this because I am on and off planning my funeral. Some like to plan their weddings and quite possible briss, but not me. I know it is a long way off (boy wont this post be ironic if I die this week), but that’s just the kind of person I am.

So what would my funeral be like? Fun. Yes, my death will be your party of a lifetime...or death...time...well you know what I mean. I like to celebrate life rather then mourn death, so to have the biggest party possible makes more sense then some depressing church deal where even the crows want to kill themselves. Am I being disrespectful to the dead? Not at all. I believe every being on this earth would agree with me, lest you be some sadist or Goth. You're not a Goth are you? Didn't think so.

My guests would be greeted by a large monitor where pre-recorded images would have me greeting every one. "Welcome to my funeral." "Please, enjoy the shrimp puffs. They are to die for." "Hey there! Looking good." I think this would give the entire thing a personal touch, which is always nice. But this is the future. Who's to say we don't have hologram technology? In that case I could walk around the crowd and mingle. Sure I can only blurb out pre-recorded lines, but again it’s all in the little touches.

I expect to die quite wealthy, so there will of course be servants dressed as angels and devils, giving the party layers. Yes, it’s all very deep. All the food will of course be humorous in some way like deviled eggs or...more deviled eggs.

The evening is of course all about me and don't you forget it. So a huge painting of me in the middle of the room should do the trick. Feel free to form a conga line around it while cheering my name.

I don't believe in burial. The very thought of maggots eating my putrid flesh and nesting in my cavities is, even for a dead man, a little off-putting. So like the heathens of old, a good old fashion 'chuck-the-corpse-on-the-fire' seems fitting.

At one point the monitors will switch to me sitting by a fireplace sipping some fine brandy. The music will dim and the room go dark. Here I will give my final good byes, some words of wisdom and the fact that I have hidden all my money somewhere in the world and the first clue as to where is at the Plaza Hotel in Paris, room 309. GO!

So if you who read this is still alive when I am not, feel free to come and enjoy the festivities. I'll be there in spirit and in High Definition.

(Bring a date)